


hands

by mistercelsius



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Dissociation, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), incest is traumatising and abusive, its korekiyo!, somewhat of a character study?, this might be triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 14:40:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21321835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistercelsius/pseuds/mistercelsius
Summary: just korekiyo and the ghosts of the past that haunt him.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 49





	hands

**Author's Note:**

> oh lord this might be a bit messy sjdjd. i haven't written anything in a while and it's been hard to get imto a groove. i hope y'all enjoy this, i apologize if it's ooc! it probably is. also for typos too i, this wasn't beta read. i mean. it's just me wanting to pour trauma onto kiyo and turning it into a short fic so.
> 
> **trigger warnings for: past incest, implied abuse, and heavy episodes of dissociation**  
****  
  
none of the aforementioned is explicit

fictional.

everything in the killing game was fictional. fictional. nothing was ever real there. the blood on his hands was fictional, the hands of his sister on his body weren't ever there on the first place, and his twisted tales of ultimate anthology fabricated for an even more twisted audience to enjoy.

fictional. fabricated. falsified. he repeats the words all over and over in his head until it feels like a random mish mash of syllables and letters, until it feels devoid of meaning. fictional. fabricated. falsified.

all for entertainment, yet a clip from the 49th season plays in his mind. from the old television his mother never bothered to replace, huddled in the corner was him who whimpered at the sight of executions.

and her who ran her fingers through his hair whenever he so much as flinched at the scene.

he hopes everything about her is false too. he wishes that she was made up like his journeys of research and beauty. but he still feels the harsh scratch of her nails on his scalp and he wonders if he's fictional too.

he holds onto the fact that he still feels his breath tickle his skin because of the medical mask that doesn't sit quite right on his face. he holds onto the fact that he still bleeds whenever the scars on his arm open. (but you bled in the game too, who's to say that this isn't fake too?)

he holds onto the fact that whenever his hands wrap around his neck, he still feels her hands and the bruises they left in the shape of her fingers. when they bloomed blue, purple and brown. it still hurts when he presses down on his jugular, but he knows the bruises have been gone for a while so he presses down hard.

sometimes he feels a little colder than uaual, his skin ice and fingers frostbitten. maybe it's becauzmse he was boiled alive and his nerves fail to communicate, maybe it's because spirits like him are always cold, maybe it's the way that his icy blue skin melted when they threw salt at him.

a chill runs through him as a nurse wheels him to the canteen as per doctor's request for him to eat, because he hasn't in a while and the iv connected to his arm is only there due to his reluctance. another at the thought of facing the others (participants? students? classmates? characters? not that it really matters.)

but when he arrives to the table, all chatter stops and he knows it's because of him and the blood that stains his hands, and the rope around his body that they never untied. he never looks up, never looks anyone in the eye but he feels the searing hot gaze of their glares. he knows chabashira's sneer of disgust and hears that remark of his degeneracy, he knows ouma snickers and lies saying that he missed him, he knows yonaga's smile twitches yet never quite falls off her face, and momota's hesitance quite out of character for him.

his skin feels cold, yet everything is hot and his skin feels like it's melting off just like it did when he was put into that pot. his head spins. everything feels suffocating and suddenly his lungs aren't working anymore and all he is is a spirit looking for a sister who never loved him in the way she should've.

everything is cold and numb because he can't (couldn't) feel his skin anymore ever since he was boiled in that pot and he can't feel right in this body anymore ever since he turned into a spirit and he can't feel anymore when he was exorcised with the salt that burned into him APOLOGIZE APOLOGIZE APOLOGIZE APOLOGIZE im sorry it wasnt supposed to be this wayits my fault its my fault im sorry APOLOGIZE APOLOGIZE APOLOGIZE IM SORRY IM SORRY IM SORRYSISTER IM SORRY

his food's on the floor and he's suddenly in bed clutching at the roots of his hair until raven strands cover until the bases of his fingers. and that's the last time he ate with the rest of the characters he spent time with in the killing game.

he thinks that their parents died when he was 10.

a car crash. a drunk driver. who crashed into the small car they had. it was brand new, it was colored silver, and he named it a silly name. he doesn't remember what it was anymore.

he thinks it was his fault.

he wanted to go pick up his sister who slept over at a friend's the night before. it was raining hard, the skies were dark and cloudy but it was only noon. maybe the road was a bit slippery. but it was his fault, he threw a tantrum when his mom said no. but his dad picked up the keys. maybe his dad was a bit of an inexperienced driver.

he remembers how his father panicked and his hands slipped from the steering wheel. he remembers his mom's screaming, as she reached for the steering wheel in her panic as the other car was narrowly trying to avoid them. he remembers the crash and the ringing in his ears afterward, everything was blurry and he was fading in and out.

the hospital room was white, cold, sterile and unforgiving, when he woke up and he found out his mother died only moments before the ambulance could arrive. how his father only lost consciousness when they brought them to the local hospital, and he spent his time trying to wake his mother up.

he left with a few stitches and a few scratches, a mother who didn't stand a chance, and a father that never woke up. but the driver that crashed into them did, and begged on his knees, face touching the ground, to forgive him.

maybe his parents forgot to put on their seatbelts, but they did. maybe his father panicked a bit too much, but he tried to save them. maybe his mother shouldn't have grabbed the steering wheel, but she only tried to get them out of there. maybe his father didn't press on the gas, but the break instead. maybe it was the drunk driver's fault.

it was his fault, he decided alongside his sister years ago when she pulled at his hair, dug her long, pointy nails into his scalp until it bleeds and yells at him to apologize. she doesn't stop when he cries, she yells at him to stop crying, because it was his fault. he cried a thousand apologies that night, and she doesn't accept them, and neither did his parents.

the door budges open, but not before a knock, and walks in the somewhat familiar sight of amami rantarou, dressed in the clothes the hospital provided to them. he ignores the sigh of relief upon the unexpected visitor is a nurse, and he ignores the hitch of his breath when he realizes,_ i haven't quite had the opportunity to have a civil conversation with any of them._ his green hair bobs up and down with every of his step, and amami sits down by the chair placed next to his hospital bed. in that dumb way he usually does.

the room is filled with an awkward silence, and amami either doesn't care or doesn't seem to notice.

"hey, shinguji, haven't seen you for a while." he says with a chill smile on his lips and a hand up in a small wave, and he decides it's probably the latter.

his throat feels dry and his eyes wander to the glass of water that stands neglected. "hello, amami, what brings you to my room?" muffled by the mask he doesn't bother to take off ever since he got it, unless when it's time to eat, of course. but even that needs to be enforced by the nurses.

scooting his chair closer, amami rests his chin on the top of the chair. "what do you... remember?" a harmless question for the most part, a little blunt question and he wonders if it's what amami came in for.

a chuckle rolls its way out of his mouth, fingers gripping the sheets that pool around his legs. "i..." what does he remember? what does he remember that feels real? what does he remember that isn't something that always slips outbof his grasp? does he remember anything real at all? he remembers nothing but everything and too little and too much. "about the killing game?"

the other only shakes his head, frown appearing on his face. "no. about, er, before it all?" and his breath stutters at that, and his lips are red and this body doesn't feel right for him to occupy no longer. he hears his sister's words somewhere in the back of his mind, a hushed whisper. he doesn't have to answer if he doesn't want to, right?

"ah, i see... i do not seem to remember much before it all, but i'm sure my fuzzy memories will return soon." the lie clumsily falls out of his lips, but it is a lie nonetheless. his eyes don't wander far from where he feels where his feet should be, and they definitely don't get close anywhere to amami. "how about you, amami? how are your sisters?"

the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth, almost metallic. he remembers that at the point of time he'd found out about amami's sisters in-game, the first thought that went through his mind was to kill them all and make her happy.

amami flinches at the question, yet a smile graces his lips. rubbing sheepishly at the back of his head, "oh yeah. my sisters... aren't real? i think." toying with the blanket around him, he looks up to glance at amami's face. the mask around his face feels tighter, heavier, somehow.

"not real? what could you mean by that?" there's cruel hope in his voice, hope at the fact that maybe, his memories were fake and even faker than the character he's woven to be in game, cruel for the fact that he's finding hope in the fact that his friend's family may be nothing but a tale.

"ah. i have sisters! 4. not 12. they're- they're not anything like what i remember from the game. if i can trust what i remember," he chuckles, albeit awkwardly, fond smile curling onto his face.

he ignores the green envy bubbling from his gut, his fingers curling once again in the clean white sheets. he wishes to be that carefree, wants to take that feeling in his own hands and turn it into his own. he wants to feel the semblance of control of his emotions in his grip, just for a bit.

a smile curls up from beneath his mask, and he forces to keep it up even though none will see. "ah. that's lovely. unfortunately for me, i haven't seemed to recover... much of my memories," oh, kiyo, you wouldn't tell your darling friend about us? about everything we've ďone together? "if you do not mind... do you have anything to share about your sisters?"

amami's face lights up, and maybe he has another thing to distract him. and he tries to enjoy what time they have as amami starts to tell him all about his sisters.

he looks at the mirror and all he sees is his sister.

her pale skin, her golden eyes, her slim body and her red lips. her long black hair, and her hands. her love. her love for him, it was beautiful but so wrong but right.

hands reach up to cup his face, and his face feels so wrong, wrong and wrong. this body feels so wrong. it's not his. it's twisted and wrong. it's her body and it's not his, she took his body from him a long while ago. he's a ghost, a ghost but why is he here? he turned into a ghost when monokuma boiled him alive and melted his skin, and he turned into nothing when they poured that boiling hot salt all over him.

that's right, he's nothing at all. he tuened into nothing when she told him he was nothing, when fingers pulled at his hair and gripped into his scalp and pulled. but why is he here? why is she here? it's as if her arms wrap around his body all over again, when she squeezed him and cried and told him she was sorry all over and over but he knew she wasn't.

his fingers shake, and he's gripping onto the sink too hard. his legs feel like they're about to give out under his weight any moment and his teeth gnaw at his lips. he needs to make this quick, his hand trembles as it holds the scissors to his hair. for too long, it had been too long and he's starting to look like the monster who hides under his bed.

long strands of raven black hair fall to the ground in varying uneven lengths, but he feels weightless. but his teeth bite at his lips until he tastes blood and they're stained red like her matte lipstick. and he realizes how much he'd look like her and not like her when hesitating eyes look up to the mirror and to his reflection. his mask hangs from his ear, and golden eyes peer down to red bleeding lips.

_oh, kiyo, you look so pretty like this. so much like your darling sister._ pale hands cup his face and golden eyes like his look down at him, and he's 12 years old all over again when his sister told him to grow out his hair just a bit after christmas last year. silky black hair reaches down to his neck, almost touching his shoulders in a messy, uneven way.

with shaking legs, he sits down on the closed toilet and drops the scissors down to the floor. it lands on the nest of chopped hair with the dulled out sound of metal meeting the bathroom tiles. his hands rise up to meet the choppy ends of his hair, and he doesn't feel the anchor of long flowing hair reaching his back.

he likes it this way, he looks more like shinguji korekiyo and not like the ghost who only knew anthropology, her words, her poison and her hands that she blindfolded him with.

he hastily hangs the other end of the mask to his other ear, and hopes that it rubs the red out of his lips. maybe he could've asked someone to cut it off for him, but not now, when his body's shaking and he's sweating so hard and his heartbeat's racing.

he doesn't know which of his memories to trust.

the set of memories of an orphaned boy who lived with his aunt and a sister who only loved him at night, or the memories of a talented anthropologist who coped with the death of his sister with his studies abroad? one of them feels realer, but both feel like they're slipping through his fingers like sand.

maybe he's fictional, given another past when he woke up that's only a story for the viewers. maybe he's still in the killing game. he feels like he is when everything doesn't feel real. he doesn't feel real.

but he doesn't think about anthropology. he hasn't thought about anthropology after the killing game finished and he woke up. his long spiels of tales abroad and the beauty of humanity never came out right, all felt forced and unnatural. but if you asked him, he hasn't really been thinking about anything.

beauty and history were much, much more of her thing anyway.

he lies in bed at night, arms sprawled out and his eyes feel heavy but not at all. he doesn't like sleeping at all. he's not tired. the light outside his room are dim, peeking below the door. the door to the room doesn't lock.

maybe someone will kill him in his sleep, because the door to the room doesn't lock. only the bathroom has a lock. he can't protect himself when he's asleep, but it's not like he can walk to the bathroom again. he had to call a nurse to get him back to his bed when he cut his hair.

he's afraid to admit that he misses her sometimes. he misses her warm, soft hands on his, he misses the way she sang old lullabies to him when he couldn't sleep, he misses what she called love. maybe it's the loneliness, maybe it's genuine.

what he remembers from the killing game and before blends together and leaves a horrible, bitter taste in his mouth. some days, he remembers everything at once, but some days they mix together in a blur of what was i truly doing that day?

his hair is short and nothing like hers and he regrets chopping it off in hurried snips of the dull scissors he found in the common room. his body is too thick, flat and tan in the ways hers wasn't. his lips are pale and ghostly and chapped and bleeding, hers were stained red with glossy cherry red lipstick.

if the game was fictional, why does she feel so real? if he's fictional, why does she feel so real? if shinguji korekiyo's fictional, why does the sister he's grown up with feel so real? if she's fictional, why does she feel so real?

maybe he's stuck in limbo. stuck here for the sins he's committed, stuck here forever due to the harsh, bright pink that stains his hands.

in the midst of the night, he cries for a sister who never loved him right. in the midst of the night, he cries for forgiveness that someone like him doesn't deserve.


End file.
